


Untitled

by Cards_Slash



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cheating, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 21:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3585276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik teaches ethics so he's knows its wrong but that doesn't matter as much as it should even after Maria finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

It happened like this:

Malik taught ethics at the community college to kids with blank eyes or high ideals that cared-or-didn’t care in equal measure to their desire to escape the hellish confines of his windowless lecture room and do something _fun_. He was an old-young man in a perfectly passable suit jacket with a tie and a shirt and a perpetual bit of fuzz on his chin that he never seemed to have the will to shave. In the evenings, after his last class it was him-alone with a pile of papers that made him despair (indefinitely) over the state of the modern world.

It was terrible-and-judgmental when he stood in front of the class and wondered where these idiots would go with their lives. The whole lot of them seemed to be comprised of failures and eventual drop-outs with a smattering of self-loathing overachievers. Most of them were grasping at straws thinking about the difference between right-and-wrong. Malik hated them and the whole sum of their generation that was so lax in morals and so incapable of drawing a line and standing by it. There was more gray in the world now than there ever-had-been.

(Sometimes he thought right-was-right and wrong-was-wrong.) 

Then it was after-eight PM, or just before seven AM and the door of his apartment opened at the quiet turn of a borrowed key. Malik was in the kitchen getting a drink or trying to convince himself out of bed. (It never did matter much.) Altair was tip-toeing across the floor on little kitten feet (just socks, no shoes) playing hide-and-seek to figure out where Malik was hiding. In the kitchen, it was Altair’s smile when he saw him and the gentle tease about how he was always drinking water at eight at night. In the bedroom, Altair was freshly-washed for his day but halfway through a run, wearing clothes half-damp with sweat with a pretty pink blush of exertion on his face. In the bedroom, Altair pulled his clothes off without pretense and yanked the blankets down to invite himself happily into Malik’s bed.

There was nothing-nothing in the whole miserable world that felt as _right_ as the spread of Malik’s hand across Altair’s back and the gentle-warm sensation of kissing him. Malik could kiss him for hours, pressed into the mattress with the heated-naked-skin of Altair’s body caging him in place. His voice was exaltation of Altair’s ever wandering attempt at arousing him and Altair’s voice was _praise_ (low and constant) admiring how much he enjoyed being touched. 

(Sometimes, Malik thought right-was-subjective and wrong-was-perspective.)

In the middle of the day, after his first class and before his second, when the pile of papers seemed monumental, Altair showed up (off and on, not consistently) with food-like-an-excuse. Malik had an office that was more like a closet and a desk that had been new in the seventies. It creaked and groaned when he wrote notes on papers but it hadn’t splintered under the aggressive abuse they subjected it too. Mornings-and-evenings were sweet-kisses and slow-slow-lovemaking but Altair in the middle of the day was impatient to get what he wanted. Malik was caught in perpetual urgency to give it to him. 

More-often-than-not, Malik’s hands were spread out over the shifting-falling-tearing stacks of papers given to him by dull-minded students as Altair pulled the collar of his shirt down in the back to bite at his hidden skin. Altair fucked him like they were strangers (still), caught somewhere anonymous where they never had to answer for the things they did. It was _filthy_ and _demeaning_ to be fucked that hard, thighs knocking against the edge of the desk and skin bruised with teeth marks. Malik clenched his teeth and rubbed his forehead against his knuckles when he couldn’t keep himself upright-anymore. Altair didn’t stop until he was gasping out his orgasm with all ten of his fingernails digging into Malik’s skin anywhere he could find it. When he was done, (and Malik’s body was ragged and sore), he pulled at Malik until he could kiss him. Sweet-sweet-kisses with half-curled smiles and fond touches of his nose. Altair’s eyes were half-closed when he was pleased with what he got and Malik was addicted to the humming sound of his voice when he made promises about how he’d be back. 

(Sometimes, Malik thought he _must_ have known the moment he decided right-and-wrong didn’t apply here.)

Maria worked in the math department with her hair slicked back away from her severe face. She was white-as-snow with hair black-as-ebony but her lips were frosted-pink and toneless. What felt like a few decades ago (more reasonably a few years) she had come to school as Snow White for Halloween. It fit her coloring but it was a poor match to her unsmiling face. The students called her a witch and avoided her when they could. The staff considered her a bitch that shouldn’t be spoken to unless absolutely necessary. Malik didn’t involve himself with her unless he had to (which he rarely did) but now-and-again she ended up standing next to him in a hallway or by a vending machine filled with poor choices.

With his hand-full of change and her arm crossed over her ribs just below her breasts while she stared at the choices, they were a poor juxtaposition. Her eyes were shrewd and narrow, looking at him with the same disdain she offered the unsatisfying snacks offered in the machines. He bought a bag of chips and she made a humming noise to indicate her judgmental disapproval of him. Sometimes, he took his chips and sometimes when those bite marks on the back of his neck weren’t all the way dry and the raw feeling of being fucked hadn’t fully settled, he opened the bag and pushed a chip into his mouth right in front of her. Daring-like-begging her to say _any_ thing to him about it.

(Sometimes, Malik knew that what he was doing was wrong (wrong-wrong).)

Months later, long after it started, Maria found her way to his classroom during his class and sat in the back with her hands folded on the desk and her feet crossed at the ankle. Her presence was foreboding (but a relief in a way) that cast a shadow across his lesson. Every moment she watched him was another moment he was sure (finally sure) that his bluff had been called. Malik was a shame, teaching ethics that he couldn’t bring himself to believe in, and thinking the students were stupid for believing in the gray areas between right-and-wrong. 

When he was done, and Maria was the only one left, she said, “remind him to pick up something for dinner, please. He always forgets when he comes to see you for lunch.” Then she picked herself up with more civility and grace than Malik was capable of _imagining_.

(Sometimes, Malik thought he was a mockery and the idea was almost a relief.)

Altair found him at lunch with a bag of sandwiches and two drinks that they never seemed to have the time to drink. He set everything down on the cart that held the printer (where it wouldn’t get destroyed). His fingers were sneaky and long, pulling Malik up by the belt loops so he could kiss him with his rough-insistence. Malik thought he probably-should (most definitely should) tell him about Maria and how she _knew_ but it was easier to kiss him back. It was _better_ to dig his hands into Altair’s arms and kiss him like he hated him. (How he had in the beginning.)

Malik didn’t give over easily but shove and bite and claw at Altair in the cramped space of his office until his back hit the wall by the door and the frame holding his diploma was digging into his back. Altair was furious when he finally fucked into him. His teeth were careless and his mouth a constant pain on Malik’s neck. His hand were digging like claws into the meat of Malik’s ass as he thrust into him like he could beat sense back into the senseless situation. They were both sweating and hurt when they finished, the orgasm settling between them crooked and unwanted. Malik’s feet were on the floor and Altair’s elbow was against the wall by his ear so they were pressed-together as tight as could be. There wasn’t time for Altair to demand what his problem was before Malik said, _your wife said not to forget to pick up dinner_.

(Sometimes, Malik thought life-was-funny.)

It should have ended but Altair was there two-days-later, sneaking into his apartment with his borrowed key and his socked feet kissing the cold wood floor. Malik was in the kitchen drinking water and trying to reason it out with himself. He closed his eyes when Altair slid his arms around him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

And Altair kissed his neck where he’d bruised it days earlier as his fingers hiked up Malik’s T-shirt. “But I am.”


End file.
